


Don’t Burst Into Flames Over Spilled Milk

by unrealitycheck



Series: Ding Dong, the Clown is Dead (But Eddie and Stan are Just Fine) [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Beverly Marsh is a Good Friend, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Richie Tozier: Human Disaster, Stanley Uris Lives, Stanley Uris is a Good Friend, domestic chaos, the only pill Eddie needs is a chill pill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22234804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrealitycheck/pseuds/unrealitycheck
Summary: “I need you to give me five good reasons not to cut Richie’s dick off.”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Ding Dong, the Clown is Dead (But Eddie and Stan are Just Fine) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600483
Comments: 8
Kudos: 175





	Don’t Burst Into Flames Over Spilled Milk

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go. More Post-Chapter Two shenanigans!

**8:22 PM  
** **On a Friday  
** **Chicago, IL**

 _Rrriiing, rrriiing, rrriii—click._ "This is Ben Hanscom—Oh! Hi, Eddie! How are you— _Oh._ Okay, sure. Sure. Let me go get her."

Deep breath. _Knock knock._

"Hey, honey. Are you in there?"

"Almost done."

"It's, uh, Eddie. On the phone."

Silence.

"Oh."

"I can tell him you're busy—"

"No, no. It's okay, Ben. I can handle it. Does he sound upset?"

"He sounds like he's having a heart attack in the middle of a traffic accident while witnessing several buildings on fire."

"Oh, cool. The usual, then."

The flush of a toilet. Water running. _Creak, creak—slam._

"Hi, Eddie. It's Bev. What's going on? Is the dog—"

"She's fine! The dog's fine! I'm just—Oh _God_ , Bev. I need you to give me five good reasons not to cut Richie's dick off."

Awkward silence.

"Um... Did he _cheat_ on you?"

"What? _No_ , Bev! Don't even suggest that! I'm pissed off at Richie because he fucked with my car! You've seen the pictures of my car, right? The vintage Thunderbird I bought at a car show in Santa Monica last month? The one that, despite its age, was in _mint_ fucking condition?"

"Okay, Eddie, calm down. Can you do that for me? Try to breathe. Whatever happened, it's can't be _that_ bad after all we've been through."

"I know. Damn it, _I know_. I just hate how careless Richie can be sometimes. I had an absolutely perfect vintage car and now there's a milk stain on the driver's seat. A milk stain, Bev! Because I actually trusted my car to a maniac who thinks it's _okay_ to eat milk and cereal while driving! Forget cutting his dick off. I have a better idea. I'm going to go on Wikipedia and update Richie's page so it says he has the smallest dick in human history. _That'll_ show him."

Muffled, guilty laughter.

"Eddie, that's terrible. Brilliant, but terrible."

"It can't be more terrible than taking an open container filled with milk into a fucking car. And to make matters worse, he was eating Lucky Charms. That's not even cereal! Like, who wants to eat marshmallows for breakfast? Lucky Charms is just _candy_ trying to masquerade as breakfast cereal, which is probably why Richie loves that shit."

"Do I detect fondness in your voice, Eddie?"

"God, I hope not. I'm still pissed at him."

"Pissed enough to mess with his Wikipedia page?"

"Definitely. It's not my fault anyone can edit that thing. Once I get a hold of it, the entire world will see that Richie Trashmouth Tozier has the tiniest dick of all time. I mean, come on, Bev, he deserves it. He spilled milk on my vintage interior!"

"How did he end up driving your car in the first place?"

Deep sigh.

"You can blame it on fucking Netflix."

*

 **30 Minutes Earlier  
** **Los Angeles, CA**

Eddie had been having a pretty good month. _Good_ considering how stressful it was to date a celebrity, even one who lost half his fanbase after coming out of the closet. It definitely didn't stop the paparazzi from taking an unhealthy interest in Richie's personal life, which meant they also took an unhealthy interest in _Eddie._ Eddie figured it was a good month when all the creepy celebrity blogs posted halfway decent photos of him.

(Except for that one at the Whole Foods Market that seemed to scream out, _Hey, look at me, I'm a neurotic mess_ , but at least his hair had looked nice.)

He liked to think he wasn't _quite_ as much of a neurotic mess as he used to be. It helped that he had tossed most of his pills into the garbage. He still took his allergy medicine, since he spent a lot of time cuddling the world's most adorable Pomeranian, and he still took his blood pressure medication, since it turned out _that_ was the one pill he really, really needed.

For a while it felt weird, only taking two meds. But then he would think back to his old life in New York, where his best friend had been the medicine cabinet, and a shudder would go through him.

But all in all, he felt relatively _good_ as he drove home from work, mostly pill-free, ready to hug the shit out of his tiny little adorable dog—without panicking about getting dog hair on his suit, because he had made _progress_ in his life. The worst part about the drive home (aside from L.A.'s horrendous traffic) was the fact that he was stuck driving Richie's stupid Mustang, which looked similar to his rental car in Derry, only bright yellow. Eddie and Richie had swapped cars that morning. Or more like _Eddie_ swapped cars. Richie crawled out of bed, found the Mustang's keys hidden in yesterday's pants (which he left on the fucking floor, despite the hamper Eddie bought him), tossed the keys to Eddie, then went back to bed because he didn't have to leave early to go to the office every single morning like normal people did.

Eddie should have taken this as a warning sign. The universe was clearly trying to tell him, _If you leave your precious Thunderbird with Richie, you're going to regret it. The man's about as responsible as a toddler!_

But Eddie ignored the warning sign, because today was a Big Day for Richie and Eddie wanted to be supportive, which meant giving in when Richie practically begged to drive the T-Bird. (Richie's word, not Eddie's. Eddie refused to call it a T-Bird.)

Richie wanted to drive the Thunderbird because he was meeting some TV executives to discuss a possible Netflix series. One of the big shots collected classic cars, so showing up in the Thunderbird was bound to make a good impression—or so Richie hoped. His career had been on a roller coaster ride since the day Mike called him back to Derry. It took a hit when Richie bombed one of his shows and then cancelled the rest, only to resurge after he revealed his relationship with Eddie. His coming-out didn't boost his popularity at the time, since it turned off some of his established fans, but it sure as hell boosted Richie's visibility. _Everyone_ started paying attention to Richie, whether they liked him or not. Since enough people still _did_ like him, he was able to rebrand himself and gain a new following, all without giving his manager a fucking heart attack in the process.

When Eddie arrived home—all too glad to get out of that stupid yellow Mustang—he figured the Netflix meeting did not go well, since Richie was unusually quiet. Either that or he felt guilty for feeding people food to the dog again.

"Please tell me Mercedes didn't swallow Cheerios again," said Eddie.

Richie was on the living room couch, flipping through their ten thousand takeout menus, since neither of them could cook.

"Dude, no," said Richie, tossing aside a vegan menu without even glancing through it. "She ate her super-healthy, vitamin-packed dog shit like she always does."

Mercedes, currently nestled in Eddie's arms, confirmed this with a thump of her tail.

But Eddie wasn't going to let an adorable dog distract him. Still holding Mercedes, he stepped closer to the couch, pretending to get a better look at the takeout menus. Richie seemed... _weird_. Weirder than usual.

"How'd the meeting go?" asked Eddie, dying inside as Richie tossed away another _perfectly_ healthy menu.

Richie shrugged over a pizza menu. (Why did they even _have_ that? Pizza was almost as evil as Pennywise.)

"Good," said Richie, not sounding good at all. "I think I've really got a shot at this Netflix deal."

Okay, something was clearly wrong. Why was Richie so calm? So quiet? Where were the _jokes_?

And suddenly Eddie saw it, as clearly as if someone had stamped the word GUILTY on Richie's forehead in big red letters. Richie acted _exactly_ like this years ago, when he broke Eddie's Walkman and tried to hide it.

"Richie..." Eddie said slowly. He let Mercedes hop out of his arms. "Did you bring my car back in one piece?"

"Yeah, of course I did," said Richie. He threw down the pizza menu and pushed his glasses up a little higher on his face—a longtime nervous habit. "Why don't we hop in the Mustang and get burgers or something? I'll drive. We can go to In-N-Out for me and Red Robin for you, so you can get that lettuce-wrapped vegan shit—"

"Red Robin for both of us, Richie. And I'd make sure _you_ get a salad! Do you think I wouldn't notice the In-N-Out receipts in your car? You went there twice in one week. _Twice!_ And I know you haven't been taking all the vitamins I bought you. Do you have any idea what this will do to your cholesterol? I swear, if you end up having a heart attack on stage, I will fucking—Wait a minute. I know what this is. You're just trying to distract me from finding out what happened to the car!"

Richie sat there on the couch and _stared_ , like a deer caught in the deadlights. He wore this same expression five days ago when Eddie accused him of letting Mercedes drink from the toilet.

"Who says anything happened to the car, Eddie?"

" _I_ say, because you did something! I know you did!"

"Relax, the T-Bird's in the garage. Nothing's been smashed up—"

"Where are the keys?" Eddie demanded.

"Wherever I left them? I don't know. Did you check the kitchen table?"

They were _not_ on the kitchen table. They were not in Richie's pockets either. Eddie finally found them in the drawer where they kept their ten thousand takeout menus, then marched straight to the garage with Mercedes yapping at his heels. Less than a year ago, he would have blamed the tightness in his chest on asthma, but of course he knew better now. He paused at the garage door, sucked in a few deep breaths, reminded himself he did _not_ need an inhaler, and burst through the door expecting the worst.

His cream-colored '68 Thunderbird sat in the middle of the garage, sparkling in mint condition, like it always did.

(It was actually a _'69_ Thunderbird, but this was a deep, dark secret that Eddie planned to keep from Richie _forever_.)

He had to take a deep breath again, since his heart still seemed determined to jump right out of his chest, and slowly circled around the car. No dents, no dings, no scratches. All four tires were intact and the headlights were perfect. Eddie couldn't even find any new smudges on the windows. Which meant the damage had to be _inside—_

"Mercedes, no! Out!" Eddie scolded.

As soon as Eddie opened the driver's door, Mercedes made a beeline for the front seat. Her tiny nose immediately went to work, sniffing all over the interior. Eddie grabbed the dog and tucked her under his arm so he could continue his inspection, then came _this close_ to dropping her when he noticed the discolored spot on the brown leather driver's seat.

The spot was about the size of Eddie's fist, right on the corner of the seat. Someone _(Richie)_ had clearly tried to scrub out whatever spilled there, but it still left a faint whitish stain on the upholstery.

Eddie took one look at it, spouted off a bunch of swear words, apologized to Mercedes for swearing right in her ear, and stormed off to the house so he could interrogate Richie on the damage.

"What is that suspicious pale spot on the seat of my car?" Eddie demanded. "I swear, Richie, if you went to In-N-Out Burger _again_ and got a fucking milkshake, I am going to hire someone to follow you around and monitor _everything_ you eat!"

"Dude, holy shit, calm down," said Richie, taking Mercedes from Eddie's arms before Eddie lost his mind and dropped her. "It wasn't a milkshake!"

"Then what the hell was it, Richie? What were you doing in my car that put a _stain_ on the seat?"

"Your mom, of course. That's where I fucked your mom."

*

**Chicago, IL**

"—and then he had the audacity to make a mom joke, Bev. A mom joke! Just when I feel like we've reached the point where Richie's _finally_ moved past the mom jokes, he reverts right back to them like we're thirteen again!"

"That's his defense mechanism, Eddie. You know that. He probably did it because he was nervous."

"He did it because he's completely careless! My mom's not even around anymore, so he's basically calling himself a necrophiliac, and he doesn't fucking care! Just like he doesn't fucking care about my car or anything else that requires responsibility because Richie doesn't know the first goddamn thing about being an adult!"

"Eddie, please. You've got to calm down. Okay? Take a breath and remember it's not that bad. Where would you rather be? In L.A. with Richie or back in New York with Myra?"

Deep breath.

"Here. God, I would rather be here."

"Because you _love_ Richie, no matter how much he screws things up. You know he doesn't do these things on purpose to hurt you. He's just... being _Richie_."

"I know. _I know._ You're right."

"Now can you tell me the rest of the story without freaking out? I still don't understand why Richie brought cereal into the car and I'm dying to know."

Another deep breath.

"Well, I had to wake Richie up early, right? Because I was taking his Mustang to work and couldn't find his car keys. And because he's so responsible, Richie went back to bed after finding the keys and overslept, so he had to rush out of the house for his Netflix meeting. So he ate breakfast _in my car_ while he drove there. Apparently you can't eat Lucky Charms without milk or you don't get the full effects of all its 'magically delicious' flavors, or some bullshit."

"So this all boils down to Richie's horrible taste in cereal."

"Yes! Along with his inability to place his keys in a designated area, like most people do. And have I mentioned he doesn't use a hamper, Bev? I can't get him to use a hamper. It's exactly like when we were kids. Do you remember?"

"Oh, my God. Richie had the messiest room when we were kids! Stan was always threatening to torch the place. Hey! Have you considered inviting Stan to stay at your house for a few days? He could be a good influence on Richie."

"I actually _have_ considered it, but I've also considered Stan's mental health. He's still appalled at how little Richie has changed over the years. The sight of Richie's bedroom might send him over the edge."

"Is it really that bad?"

"He still has ugly patterned shirts scattered around the place, so yes, it is _that_ bad."

"You sound a lot better, Eddie. Do you feel better?"

"You know, I—I actually do. Thanks, Bev. I know I'm a pain in the ass, always calling you when there's a crisis, but I just—it helps. It really does. You always seem to understand."

"We both married our horrible parents. Shit like that brings people together."

Strained laughter.

"God, you're right. I guess I'd better let Richie know I'm not packing up and leaving him anytime soon. I'm still going to mess with his Wikipedia page, though."

"Oh, definitely. I'd be disappointed if you didn't. Send me the link when it's done!"

"I will. Goodnight, Bev."

"Goodnight, Eddie."

_Click!_

*

**Los Angeles, CA**

Eddie spent the rest of Friday night scouring the internet, trying to find the best of the best in vintage upholstery restoration. Richie, clearly still guilty, kept out of his way and played with Mercedes until she curled up in exhaustion at the foot of his bed. Eddie ended up joining both of them an hour later, just to prove to Richie that he wasn't going to pack up and take off to New York in the middle of the night.

He guessed most people—or at least people who didn't know them well—might find it odd that Eddie and Richie had separate bedrooms. This question had never come up, but if it ever did, Eddie would patiently explain that it was for his own sanity. Even with a part-time maid cleaning up his messes five days a week, Richie generated an unbelievable amount of chaos in the house, so Eddie definitely needed his own carefully-controlled space. Some mornings Eddie woke up in Richie's bed and sometimes Richie woke up in Eddie's, and the arrangement suited both of them perfectly fine—just as long as they left the door open for the dog.

It was a fucking miracle that TMZ never did an article on it, though. _That_ would really spark some rumors. Eddie could easily imagine the internet dissecting every detail of their living arrangement, probably spinning crazy stories about Richie _pretending_ to be in a gay relationship for the publicity it brought him.

Myra certainly thought so when Eddie told her he was moving to L.A. She tearfully begged him not to go—even though the divorce was in process and there was no chance of Eddie moving back in with her. _That comedian doesn't love you, Eddie!_ she'd told him over the phone. _It's all just a publicity stunt! That's what those celebrities DO when their careers are in danger. As soon as his success takes off again, he'll drop you, Eddie—just wait and see!_

It was stupid, but every once in a while, Eddie almost let himself believe her.

This usually happened when Richie was away from home for days or weeks at a time. Eddie would wake up to an empty house, text Richie good luck on his latest show, and wonder if this was the day when Richie finally realized he could do so much better.

 _I mean, just fucking look at me_ , Eddie would think to himself, catching his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His eyes always lingered upon the knife scar on his cheek.

What the hell was Richie doing with _him_ , anyway? Eddie was just some nobody he knew from a long-forgotten childhood. Just a nervous, paranoid risk analyst with fake asthma and mommy issues who never left the house without disinfectant wipes in his wallet. Richie was fucking _famous_. He probably met all _kinds_ of people who were five hundred times cooler than Eddie could ever be.

Eddie had confessed these fears to Beverly once, during one of his frantic phone calls. He couldn't believe anyone in their right mind would actually want _him,_ he told her, and Beverly just laughed and said, _Well somebody obviously does, Eddie. And he has for a long time._

He knew she was right. He was just so used to denying himself happiness—so used to suppressing every little thing he wanted in life—that he tended to be extremely unfair to himself sometimes.

On Saturday morning, Eddie woke up in the disarray of Richie's bedroom, kicked aside a couple of shirts scattered on the floor, fed Mercedes, and pulled out his list of potential repair services for his Thunderbird. While eating his usual safe and healthy breakfast (dairy-free yogurt with a date-and-apricot bar), Eddie placed some phone calls about having his upholstery restored, taking care to lower his voice whenever he mentioned his car was a '69 Thunderbird. The last twenty-four hours had been stressful enough. He did _not_ need Richie waking up and overhearing some prime joke material.

After securing an appointment for his car, Eddie got a message from Stan:

_Woke up this morning and found 17 texts from Richie last night. All of them asking for my advice. What did he DO?_

Eddie texted back:

_Don't think I have the mental strength to go over that story again. Ask Bev._

_I will,_ Stan replied. _Richie must have really screwed up. He was panicking so much, I almost thought it was YOU_ _texting me._

Eddie suddenly felt very, very guilty for editing Richie's Wikipedia page last night. He would have to go back and fix that, after his car seat was restored.

He spent the rest of the morning showering, meticulously brushing his teeth (bad oral hygiene could lead _straight_ to heart disease), and taking his blood pressure medication. He then went into Richie's room to tell him he was leaving (for a few hours, not permanently!), but discovered Richie's bed was empty. The door to the en-suite bathroom was closed.

Eddie tapped on the bathroom door. "Hey. Richie. I'm, uh, going to head out for a few hours. I found a restoration expert who specializes in vintage cars, so hopefully I can get the seat fixed."

After a brief pause, Eddie heard a reluctant "Okay" from the other side of the door.

That was it. Just _okay_ , which was so unlike Richie that Eddie wanted to scream.

"Richie, come on. Don't keep worrying about it. I'm over it now. I mean, I slept in your damn _bed_ last night, surrounded by all your mess, so I think we're pretty much even. Sure, I wish you hadn't been so careless and it's a pain in the ass to get the upholstery fixed, but it's not the end of the world. So, uh, I'm heading out now, but I promise I will come back. Don't forget to walk Mercedes."

He didn't wait for Richie's reply and went to fetch his car keys from the hook where he _always_ kept them, unlike certain people who left their things scattered around wherever. He discovered a new text message from Stan:

_Wow. Just got the story from Bev. I thought Richie was eternally 13, but it turns out he is actually a 4 year old._

_I know_ , Eddie typed back. _Wouldn't trade him for anything though._

 _Glad to hear that_ , Stan replied. _He's genuinely sorry and really wants to make it up to you._

"Note to self: fix that Wikipedia page as soon as you get home," Eddie muttered as he got into his car.

Richie was doing a damn good job making Eddie feel guilty as hell, and Eddie was the _innocent_ one.

*

A few hours and an outrageous amount of money later, Eddie could safely say that his Thunderbird was restored. It would never be the same as when he first bought it, but it was close enough, and he could live with that.

Richie was gone when Eddie arrived home. Which was kind of a relief, considering how weird Richie had been since the car incident started. Eddie had to admit, he was a little nervous about Richie performing some grand gesture of apology, but he noticed nothing unusual around the house. Not even a note on the table from Richie. He probably went out for an emergency meeting with his manager or something.

Eddie shot Richie a quick text to assure him the car was fine, sent pictures of his newly restored upholstery to Beverly and Stan, then sat down at his laptop to log into his Yelp account (username EddieK75). He needed to leave an absolutely scathing review of the Thai restaurant he ate at while waiting for the car to be fixed. Richie was always making fun of his Yelp reviews, but Eddie felt it was his duty to criticize a certain Thai restaurant for their slow service and overcooked vegetables. The public needed to know!

One of Eddie's favorite reviews was the one he wrote on In-N-Out Burger. Richie had threatened (more than once) to read it out loud on stage, but Eddie didn't see what the big joke was. He personally thought it was an excellent review:

_Though I'm not yet fully vegan (a work in progress), I try to avoid beef as much as possible because it can SERIOUSLY raise your cholesterol! But ever since I moved to California, everyone has been acting like In-N-Out is a big deal. A month into my new job, I managed to shock my co-workers when I confessed I had not tried any of their mediocre burgers. Apparently you can't live here without eating this crap. Due to In-N-Out's popularity, I assumed (big mistake) that they were something special. I figured I could survive ONE burger if it was as good as everyone made it out to be._

_First of all, In-N-Out only has three main items on their menu. THREE!! And they're all practically the same. I've seen taco trucks with more variety. Most places give you the somewhat-healthier options of chicken and turkey, but at In-N-Out, you are stuck with beef whether you like it or not._

_The burger itself was nothing special AT ALL. I'm usually gluten-free, but I decided to get the full experience (and pay for the consequences, no doubt!) and ordered my burger with a bun (but no onions, since they are a leading cause of heartburn). Honestly, this burger was only slightly better than those cheap little burgers they served at school when I was a kid. But it cost less than three dollars, so I guess it's true that you get what you pay for!!!_

_But the worst part was the french fries—if you can call them that! More like fried cardboard! I can only assume I was given stale fries. Unless they're SUPPOSED to be like this??? I was always under the impression that California was progressive and innovative when it comes to its food, but apparently In-N-Out did not get the memo, because their fries taste like they've been sitting around in someone's cupboard for a week._

_Oh, and get this: I later found out that In-N-Out has a so-called "secret menu" with additional options on it. That's right. Secret! What the hell?? I personally would NOT trust any restaurant that keeps ANYTHING a secret! What else are you hiding, In-N-Out? Let's hope for all our sakes that the health inspector finds it sooner or later!!!_

Definitely one of Eddie's best works, despite Richie telling him that _he_ should be the comedian.

He was two sentences into his review of the Thai restaurant when Mercedes started yapping excitedly, which meant Richie was home. She had a very specific bark for Richie that seemed to shout, _Hooray! It's the guy who let me eat Cheerios off the floor and drink out of the toilet!_

Eddie let her keep barking and resumed his scathing review. To his surprise, he got a text from Richie.

_Come out to the driveway._

Shit. Did Richie buy Eddie a replacement Thunderbird? Did he really feel _that_ bad about the whole thing? Not that Eddie was _opposed_ to owning another Thunderbird, but still. Richie could have just apologized and been done with it.

Sighing as he grabbed his sunglasses (UV rays were a _big_ danger in L.A.), Eddie went to the front door and stepped outside.

He didn't see any strange cars. There was just Richie's stupid yellow Mustang demanding attention, as usual.

Then he looked down and realized there _were_ some strange cars. Lots of them, actually. Little tiny Hot Wheels had been arranged on the driveway to spell out the words I'M SORRY.

Eddie felt a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with fake asthma.

"Damn it, Richie," he said, unable to suppress the grin spreading on his face. "You really scared me for a second. I was afraid you bought a full-sized car."

Richie stared down at his handiwork in alarm. "Shit, did you _want_ a full-sized car?"

"No! No, this is perfect."

"Stan told me he once wrote Patty an apology in bird feathers, which is fucking insane. I figured Hot Wheels would work better. You had this huge collection when we were kids, remember? Whatever happened to them?"

"My mom made me get rid of them," said Eddie. He stooped to pick up one of the tiny cars—a black Ferrari. "It was right when we moved away from Derry. I remember I was pissed because my dad gave me those cars when I was little, so I didn't want to give them up, but my mom wouldn't listen to me."

"She never fucking did," said Richie.

Eddie's hand tightened around the Ferrari, then relaxed. It was okay. It was _all_ okay.

"Thanks, Rich. I hope you know I'm not angry anymore. I stopped being angry hours ago."

"I know. I just—I really wanted to do something. You put up with an unbelievable amount of shit from me."

"You're lucky you have me, because nobody else would," said Eddie.

He replaced the toy Ferrari, then snapped a picture of the apology to show Beverly.

 _Aww, look at that!_ she texted him. _Now you've got the BIGGEST car collection in L.A.!_

Oh, no. Speaking of size...

Eddie _really_ needed to get on Wikipedia and remove all those false statements about Richie's dick, before the media got a hold of it.

The celebrity blogs had been suspiciously quiet lately.

**Author's Note:**

> \- This was directly inspired by the “Cereal Defense” episode of _It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia._ I was thinking about this episode and realized RICHIE would totally eat milk and cereal while driving.  
> \- I’ve lived in California my whole life and literally just discovered In-N-Out has a “secret menu.” Gasp! But unlike Eddie, I don’t mind In-N-Out.  
> \- I guess I’ve got this kink where Eddie’s really super into cars, because he turns out car-obsessed every time I write him. I am very much okay with that.


End file.
